Wounded and Wandering
by RJEisenhuth
Summary: A mission is about to close but serious problems arise! Jim, Rollin, Cinnamon, Barney and Willy era.
1. Chapter 1

(1)

Dr. Greene* left the hotel room and gave Cinnamon a friendly wave. "Wish you well, Miss Carter. All of you." He said before closing the door.

She hated waiting. One would think after all these months working with the IMF that Cinnamon Carter would get used to the 'wait and see' aspect of her chosen profession. But, as with a certain actor and work companion of Cinnamon's, she grew antsy if asked to sit and wait around too long. Now, here she was in an above average hotel nestled in the middle of New York City – waiting.

Sitting at the foot of the bed, pulling at her nylons, Cinnamon glanced at a packet of cigarettes on the nightstand. She was dying for a smoke but promised herself she'd cut back. Lately, Cinnamon had developed a smoker's cough and her doctor advised, for a woman so young, restraint might be in order. She agreed but wondered what the doctor would have said, his expression critical, if she told him she had spent weeks without a smoke, as the guest of an eastern European country's prison system. That was last year and no one – none of the IMF team - questioned her lack of will-power then.

Instead, Cinnamon looked at the telephone beside the cigarettes and sighed. She should be hearing from Jim anytime now.

Cinnamon's part of their mission was done. She had gone in, distracted Maxwell Steiner long enough for Jim and the others to plant the information about Rollin and herself into his files, then she left with promises of an intimate dinner, just the two of them, in the future. Playing the irresponsible and lonely wife of an arms dealer was not altogether new to Cinnamon and she enjoyed the execution as well as getting men like Steiner off the street and into prison.

She also enjoyed working closely with Rollin Hand again. He was very intelligent and attractive. But more than that, he was a good man.

Still, she sensed Rollin wished her character during this mission was more in line with what he envisioned. He saw her as a slightly ruthless but loyal wife to her devoted if somewhat questionable spouse. They didn't get to play those roles too often anymore. Nevertheless Rollin, as well at the rest, knew where her specialty lay and how Cinnamon's attributes could best be used.

Rollin left mid-morning and she remembered him giving her a small wink as she adjusted and brushed the jacket he was wearing. It was rigged and had to be functioning properly for the mission to work. Yet, he took the moment to flirt with her; something Rollin often did and she appreciated it. Sometimes agents had to do such things or the intensity of a mission could get too overwhelming.

Yet, the moment always crumbled a bit when she wondered if he also flirted with other female agents.

Nervously Cinnamon got up, crossed to the side-table and picked up the cigarette pack. She paced as she smoked, unaccountably worried. They were on their last leg. Rollin and Willy would do their part and soon, she hoped, they would al fly home to Los Angeles – Mission: Accomplished.

* * *

His breaths were coming out in quick gasps and the searing pain moving through his left shoulder might have been crippling if it wasn't for the powerful treatment he had taken just before meeting Chung and Harper.

Rollin had been playing the part of a real-life well-known but nearly never seen arms dealer, Lou Canyon, with weapons to be bought by an eastside syndicate.

The real Canyon had unknowingly to most died a month previous to this meeting. He was a social drug user, something the IMF had learned after the fact - and addicted. He was known to heavily partake while meeting and greeting clients, who often joined in. It was an overdose that finally did him in.

Jim had not counted on the drug use but needed to be careful. He told Rollin to commence with an alternate plan, telling the two enemy agents he was working with Pierson and Chemins, well-known brutish New York crime figures.

Their IMF physician, Dr. Greene, was then called into Rollin and Cinnamon's hotel room, to prepare Rollin for any possibility. They had used the ingenious doctor before when the couple needed to be narcotic free for a few days. This time the new and improved preventive also included a pain killer.

Greene told them he had received criticism from some other agents. While his treatment left them free from the highs, lows, and negative reactions of various drugs, there was often stomach cramping and pain from injection needles that could be overwhelming. Dr. Greene took care of it with his new solution. His reviews were now much improved. "Think of it as a bonus." He told Rollin. "Just in case."

All had gone well during the pick-up. The weapons were moved into a large paneled truck in the back of a warehouse. The driver, Willy, gave Rollin a confidential nod which told him that Barney had tampered with communication. Soon the criminals would find themselves in the midst of a nasty case of looking guilty of selling to a foreign power, when everything was supposed to stay close to home.

It was the difference between five years or twenty-five years in state prison.

Chung and Harper were inconsequential. They were after the big man, Maxwell Steiner, mob boss extraordinaire. The only thing he loved more than money was beautiful women and Cinnamon had been instrumental in his set up.

As smoothly as everything was running, Rollin felt something was off despite, or perhaps because of, the good cheer behind Chung's usually austere expression. He offered Rollin some pills which the agent eagerly took as per character. He washed them down with a flask of spirits. He took a toke on a marijuana cigarette. As an actor, a one-time street kid, and native New Yorker, Rollin was not unfamiliar with pharmaceuticals but he was not a user – generally speaking. Keeping a cool head was always his top priority.

Willy drove off down the street in the truck and all Rollin needed to do was give a suitcase filled with money to Harper and make his getaway. The camera secreted on his body would catch all the rest. In theory the mission would be accomplished in record time and he would go back to the hotel where Cinnamon was waiting for him, their luggage packed. From there they'd grab a taxi, go to the airport and board a private plane back to Los Angeles. On the plane their companions would be waiting for them.

An unaccounted for man suddenly appeared and walked toward Rollin. He was tall with a thick beard and, smoking a cigar, he looked Rollin up down.

"And who is this?" Rollin asked casually, backing up ever so slightly.

"Alexander Chemins." He said candidly. "Brother to Nick Chemins and he never told me anything about Lou Canyon making an arms deal. Whoever you are, you are _not_ Canyon!"

A gun was pulled and suddenly fired. Rollin was knocked against the brick wall of a neighboring Italian restaurant before he even realized Harper had discharged his weapon.

The camera and microphone built into Rollin's suit was disabled.

"Kill him and find that truck!" Harper demanded.

* * *

* Dr. Greene was mentioned in the first season M:I episode _"A Cube of Sugar"._

* * *

 **CONTINUE ...**


	2. Chapter 2

(2)

Chung started forward.

Usually a good man with words, the actor could see a fading cause when it slapped him across the face. Rollin, summoning strength he should not have had, punched Chung hard, knocking him into his companions. He then ran harder, faster and longer than ever before in his life! He could hear the firing of a couple of shots behind him, the bullets pinging against pavement and run-down buildings but missing him clean.

Rollin was on 9th Street before realizing he had somehow lost the men. Still, he needed to contact Jim and the others, let them know he was injured but alert, and pray Willy got away before he too was jumped on.

Swallowing hard, he looked down at his shoulder. His dark suit made the wound nearly invisible – but he felt it. Hot flames of agony that did not decrease, no matter how many drugs Dr. Greene gave him, staggered Rollin.

He felt himself fading and nearly panicked.

Rollin ducked into an alley to gather himself, wondering how he would feel if the doctor's pain killer did not exist, and leaned against a graphitized barrier. His legs gave away and slowly Rollin slid down the wall until he was sitting on the pavement. His vision was bleary but, despite the pain, his mind was sharp.

Again, he put it down to Dr. Greene's treatment but also his own good health. Rollin had also taken a stimulant offered by Chung. Could that have something to do with it also, despite Greene's medication?

He needed to get to a telephone booth. Rollin did not know if his monitor had been damaged when he was shot but so far his requests for help had been ignored. Obviously Jim Phelps was not hearing him and, from the looks of it, no one could find him.

The dizziness was just starting to fade when he heard a noise, the clink of a bottle alongside the brick wall his back was resting against.

"You look like you could use this more than me." A gruff voice uttered. A man wearing a knit cap and a dirty torn pea-coat sat next to him and presented a half full bottle of wine to Rollin.

"Thanks. No." Rollin said, feeling the beads of perspiration run down his face. "But I need help. A phone."

"There's one over on Winston Street. Three blocks over on our right." The man advised, his breath pungent but his manner kind, "I know it because it's near a soup kitchen I frequent."

Rollin was amazed the man's voice was so clear to him. Street-bum he might be but he also seemed intelligent. Licking his lips, Rollin thought he could either give the man the phone number to he and Cinnamon's hotel room, possibly terminating the mission, or he could try to make it there on his own. "Can you help me up?"

"You sure? You look like you could use some rest and …" The man pulled back, having saw something, "Is that blood?"

Rollin realized his jacket had pulled back, revealing his shirt. He covered it, "I'm fine. I just need to get to a telephone." He gulped, "Help me, please."

"Sure." The man stood warily and as he helped Rollin to his feet he asked, "What did you do? You're dressed too well to be a common thug. You owe someone money?"

Rollin chuckled, despite the situation. "I just got mixed up with the wrong people. I've got to go …" He looked closely at his new friend, "What is your name?"

"Jose." He said, "Friends call me Joe."

"Thanks Joe. I'll pay you back someday. Promise." He then pushed himself out of the alley. Rollin could hear Joe call out to him, telling him to be careful and also offering further aid. As much as Rollin could use his help he could not involve an outsider. The mission was still on and involving an unaware private citizen was out of the question.

Some orders, no matter the situation, could not be disregarded.

* * *

Cinnamon stood outside of their hotel, on the sidewalk, smoking another cigarette as she visually scanned the busy street up and down. Rollin was in trouble and he was late.

Jim had notified her that they had lost contact. His monitor picked up a confrontation then it blanked. The only thing they did know was that Rollin was on the move. They just did not know where he was.

Willy and Barney delivered the weapons, evidence in hand, and returned to the warehouse. Chung, Harper and the rest had deserted the place but he was less worried about that than his potentially injured man. They could pick up Steiner's boys later now that they had evidence against the mob figure.

Cinnamon dropped her cigarette and stomped it with the heel of her chic Julie Randoff shoe. She could still hear Jim's last words to her: "Wherever he is the mission is accomplished. He did his job."

As if that was really what was so important, she thought. Rollin was out there somewhere, possibly hurt and alone. She was deeply worried about him, as she often was. Every instinct told Cinnamon to go look for Rollin but Jim told her to stay put. He had Barney and Willy out and on the job while Jim took care of the weapons, framing Steiner, and arranging for quick transportation out of the state.

New York was a very big place.

Cinnamon turned and was about to go back into the hotel when she was suddenly confronted by someone she never expected to see again.

"Hi honey, we have a date." He lifted his coat to show her he was armed and she better not try to scream.

Roughly, Maxwell Steiner grasped Cinnamon's arm and nearly dragged her back into the hotel with him.

* * *

 **To Be Continued ...**


	3. Chapter 3

**(3)**

Rollin was nearly there. He could see the phone booth but if it was not for the walls and store fronts keeping him upright as he leaned heavily against them, the agent doubted he would have made it as far as he did.

Ten yards from his chosen destination, Rollin felt an overwhelming dizziness and had to stop his progress. He stumbled and propped himself against a brick building, underneath scaffolding, and did not know where he was until he saw a Pug puppy looking up at him through a display inside the store. _Pet City_ the sign said.

In pain, perspiring, and feeling nauseous, all he could do was look at the little pooch and smile a little. "Hi." He said to the curious and slightly cocked-head of the puppy through the window.

Rollin could feel the blood trickling from his unseen wound, a distinctive burning, and he knew if he were to reach inside and touch his left side upper chest, he would probably feel the entry wound and possibly the bullet itself if he pressed deeply enough.

But he did not even try to determine how bad off he was. If he did he didn't think he'd be able to continue. Instead, he pushed forward, weak legged, and finally made it into the phone booth.

* * *

If Cinnamon had thought for even an instant that Maxwell Steiner would come to their hotel she never would have walked outside, waiting for word, hoping to spot Rollin or any of the other members of the team. She had been impatient and now she and possibly Rollin were in dire trouble.

Initially, Steiner probably was waiting for her to call him, wondering where they could meet up for their clandestine tryst. Not knowing, of course, that Cinnamon had no intention of following through with their affair. He knew her "husband", Rollin, was working with his men but Steiner's downfall would not have been realized for another twenty four hours, if the mission had worked as it should. She and the others would be in the air, on their way to L.A. by the time he suspected anything was amiss.

And by the time they landed he would have been handcuffed and brought in by the FBI.

It now made sense to Cinnamon, as he grasped her arm, partly shoving and pulling her to the hotel room. When Rollin was wounded and got away so Steiner would naturally come to the place where he suspected he would go; into the arms of his loving but adulterous wife.

"Open it." He demanded, now that they stood at the room's door. Steiner glanced at Herden, his burley and dark coated associate. They waited as Cinnamon opened the door.

"He's not here." She repeated, having said the same thing in the elevator earlier. Her nervous demeanor was not altogether pretend.

Steiner pushed her into the hotel suite and Cinnamon collapsed on the mattress at the foot of the bed. From there the men looked about the hotel room; In the bathroom, closets, behind the curtains, and they tried the door to an adjoining room but found it locked.

Finally satisfied, Steiner took the chair near a business desk and brought it in front of Cinnamon and sat on it. He looked at her closely, watching as she gently bit her lower lip, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. "We know your husband isn't Lou Canyon so you are obviously not Mrs. Canyon. Who are you?"

Cinnamon looked away from him a moment, seemingly to comprehend the jig was up, and said: "My name is Monica Selby." She confessed, "I've been with John, his real name is John Simon, for three years. I was his secretary but we fell in love. He worked with Canyon for about three months, he learned a lot from him, then he got this crazy idea …"

"Worked for him? Was he a thug?"

"Oh no, a book keeper. John is very book-smart but Canyon treated him like dirt and did not pay him as well as John thought he should. He told me if he could just get a small piece of his action he'd …"

"What?"

"He promised to marry me. We were going to go live in South America … he said." She faltered as a woman might when she realized her hopes and dreams were coming to an end.

"Go on."

"Well, it was going to be simple." Cinnamon explained, "He knew all the ins and out of Canyon's operation and he does look a little like him, tall and dark, so he made the deal with you."

"Where did he get the money?"

"From Canyon's bank account, of course. He was his book keeper after all. Canyon trusted him."

"Why did he get you involved?"

"That was my idea." She now looked embarrassed, "I thought if I got to know you, distracted you a little, we might be able to swing it a bit easier. It's been said you like pretty women and I know I'm not altogether unattractive and John thought it was a good idea."

Steiner nodded. They hit that one straight on the head. He did like good looking dames and it nearly cost him. Gruffly, he asked - "Do you know what happened to him?"

"John? Was he found out?" she gasped, "Is he dead?"

"He was shot."

"Oh my God …" Cinnamon gasped and placed her face in her hands, "I told him something like this could happen." She sobbed, "I told him …"

"Relax. He's alive. We just need to find him."

The phone rang. All eyes looked at it.

"Answer it." Steiner told her. "But if it's him and you say anything about us being here I'll break your neck."

Uneasily, Cinnamon moved to the head of the bed, near the nightstand, and picked up the hand-piece. "Hello …"

She could hear breathing on the other end and knew it was Rollin, waiting for her to give him the all-clear. "John … is that you?" she asked.

* * *

 _Damn._

Rollin was hoping Cinnamon would get left out of this, that he would reach her before Steiner, but obviously she was in trouble. "Yeah Baby, it's me."

"Are you okay?"

He could tell by the sound of her voice that Cinnamon's concern was genuine. "It's not good. Monica – I made a mistake. I've been shot, honey. You have to come and get me."

"You need to go to a doctor …"

"No. I'll be arrested or even worse Canyon or Steiner will find me." He gulped, suddenly very dizzy again. "Come and get me, honey. Just come and get me …" He heard a pause and knew she was being prompted by Steiner.

"Darling, where are you?' she asked, tears and stress in her voice.

He looked about, "Near a soup kitchen on Winston. There's a pet store nearby." He gulped, _"Hurry."_

Rollin hung up the phone and just in time. He hoped Barney had picked up, through his endless wire-tappings, where he was before Steiner's men got to him. His legs were weak and slowly Rollin sank down into the phone booth and passed out.

Oddly, his last thoughts were of Cinnamon. He hoped Jim intervened before Steiner decided she was no longer necessary.

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED ...**


	4. Chapter 4

**(4)**

He awoke to the sound of scraping; plastic utensils against Styrofoam dishes, the smell of grease, the feel of a coarse blanket against his skin.

"It is all right, my son. The police have been called. They will be here any minute." The priest said, his kind and spectacled face suddenly in view. "As is an ambulance."

"No …" Rollin croaked, feeling both panic and unconsciousness ebbing away at his mind yet again. _No one could know about him … innocents could get hurt …_ Yet, he could not stop his eyes from closing.

"Relax." The sympathetic voice said, "You are in our shelter to the back of the kitchen. No one will harm you here."

Rollin blindly lifted a hand to touch the old man's shoulder, "If only you could understand ..." But the exertion was too much. His hand slid off the priest's shoulder to fall lax on the mattress.

* * *

"Does Canyon have any idea what he's got in a gorgeous dame like you?"

Cinnamon had heard a variation on this same line before and always, in the past, she used it to great advantage, usually to manipulate and empower herself against a target. However, this time she found it annoying and the gun Steiner aimed in her direction made it difficult to concentrate.

Distracted, she had nearly missed the small muted yellow blinking light on the suite's phone. It was a signal and it took Cinnamon a moment to realize what it was telling her.

"You are very kind." She said smoothly, attempting outward innocence. She turned to look at Steiner as he sat behind the writing desk. He was looking her up and down, no doubt having licentious thoughts. She sat at the foot of the bed, wringing her hands ever so slightly and said, "I haven't eaten since this morning. Are you hungry?" she asked.

"I could eat." He replied.

She looked at the phone, "I could call room service ..."

"No." Steiner got up from the chair, " _I_ will call room service." He said, naturally distrustful.

She nodded and shrugged, "Dial nine." She advised.

Steiner called and gazed at Cinnamon as he spoke, "Yes, Room 229 and we would like some sandwiches and a pot of coffee sent to our room. Yes, chicken and roast beef will be fine." He hung of the phone, "Okay?"

She smiled gently at him despite the gun he still trained on her. Still, Cinnamon noted that Steiner held it loosely, possibly assured that this lovely but silly woman was no real threat; under-estimating her.

If only he knew.

* * *

The policeman had just taken his statement. "Don't worry, Father. We'll get to the bottom of this. Thank you for calling us."

Rollin might not have awakened but he heard a familiar voice. It pulled and pushed at his numbed mind then he felt his body moving, being lifted.

"What hospital are you taking him to?" the priest asked.

"Manhattan General."

Rollin's eyes opened and he looked at the ambulance attendant at the foot of the stretcher he had been strapped to. He knew him … _Dr. Greene?_ That could only mean the ambulance driver at the other end was … He looked upward.

"You're fine, Rollin. Rest." came Willy's quiet but confident voice.

With some effort, as the men were loading him into the ambulance, Rollin turned to his right and saw the sympathetic priest talking to a cop. Barney Collier always looked good in a dark blue uniform.

Still, something more concerned him. Rollin gently licked his lips and whispered, "What about Cinnamon?"

"Safe for the moment." Willy replied cryptically. "Jim has an idea."

* * *

The tray came to them on wheels. The small platter of sandwiches, with their crusts trimmed carefully away, came with a nice silver pot of coffee. Two ceramic cups with matching saucers were also on the rolling tray.

"Would you like me to pour, sir?" the man asked, taking the clear lid off the tray.

"No. We'll serve ourselves."

"Very good."

With his white hair and blue eyes, their tall waiter glanced once at Cinnamon, sending her a message which she quickly understood and gave him the counter sign with her eyes. They had done the same thing in Monaco last year.

Knowing that Steiner already lusted after her, it should not prove too difficult.

He graciously thanked Steiner for his tip then the waiter quickly exited the room.

* * *

Inside the ambulance Dr. Green worked on Rollin as Willy drove them to his personal clinic. He parted the dress shirt and jacket. There was blood and an entrance wound but he would not be able to see how truly bad it was until Rollin was taken into surgery.

What worried him was all of the medication already in Rollin's system. He had taken a great many drugs, both as Canyon and during the treatments Greene himself gave to Rollin to prevent an over-dose. That was before he was shot, when he was healthy, was able to battle the influences with the power of his iron will and body chemistry.

Operating on Rollin Hand now could kill him.

* * *

 **TO BE CONTINUED ...**


	5. Chapter 5

**(5)**

The sandwiches were eaten, the coffee drank, dishes pushed away, and all there was left to do was wait.

"Where the hell are my men?" Steiner exclaimed, looking out of the hotel window down at the busy street below. "He's been shot for God's sake! How far can he go?"

Cinnamon paced, softly stroking the band on her newly acquired ring. Jim had left it for her on the tray and she picked it up, quickly sliding it on her finger before Steiner saw the exchange. Now she was waiting for the perfect moment to make her move. There was no time like the present.

She started to weep. "What if he's dead?" The merely utterance of the question gave her heart an authentic pang of grief. What if Rollin _did_ succumbed to his wound, never to return to the IMF? The thought of never seeing him again was simply something she could not fathom. He was a workmate and friend but ... he was also more. Even if neither of them knew exactly what that was. "What will I do if he's dead?" Her tears were genuine.

Cinnamon hadn't heard from Jim or any of the others for over an hour and could only hope Rollin had been picked up and was being tended to by Dr. Greene. Still, she had to keep her head together and continue with the mission, hoping for the best. Oddly, it had not occurred to her that she was the one in the most jeopardy right now.

Again, Cinnamon sat at the end of the big bed, presenting the epitome of a nearly defeated gesture. She had pulled a tissue from a box to dry her tears. "I feel so alone."

"The fact they haven't contacted me means they haven't found him, one way or the other. Maybe some old woman has him in her house and is taking care of him." Then Steiner turned and looked at melancholy woman on the bed. Damn, she was fine looking, vulnerable and needing comfort. It gave him a rather cruel idea. "Or maybe he's being tended to by some pretty young thing, dabbing his wounds, and maybe kissing the hurt away."

Eyes wide, Cinnamon lifted her head and looked at the mob boss. "You don't mean that." She whispered.

"I hope it's not true for your sake." He said, attempting to sound compassionate. Pretty but dumb women ate that sort of thing up. "You just never know. We don't have a clue how serious that gunshot wound is. When he saw you were not coming for him he may have gone to one of his other girlfriends for aid."

"He doesn't have another girlfriend ... _We're in love_!"

"Well, that's what he told _you_. But how much honor is in a guy who would steal from his own boss and use you – the woman he's supposed to love – in his plan? He had to know he was placing you in danger." Casually, Steiner laid his gun on the desk and sat beside Cinnamon on the bed. "Monica, what I wouldn't give to you if you were mine."

Cinnamon had been looking at the gun, noting its distance from them, then she looked up at Steiner. She had fooled him into believing she was harmless. "Mr. Steiner, you said something a while ago …" She murmured, clearing her throat, "Something about how Canyon did not know what he had in me. I told you his name is John Simon …"

"I wasn't talking about your boyfriend. You work for Canyon too and I'm surprised he hasn't made a move on you. He hasn't, has he?"

"A couple of times." She admitted, "But John was always so charismatic … I believed him when he told me he loved me." Then she faltered then exclaimed, "I was such a _fool_ , believing he wanted to marry me! You're right. He doesn't love me. Not like he said …" She shook her head back and forth, defeated, and brought the tissue back up to her eyes.

Beautiful, stupid, and vulnerable. Steiner liked that in a woman. Still, he sensed there was more to Monica Selby than beauty and sex. She had class and would make a great conquest. Gently but with purpose, Steiner put an arm around her shoulders, seemingly to comfort the woman.

When she looked up, their faces were very close to one another.

"You would take care of me?" she asked, nearly child-like.

"You know it, Sweetheart."

They then kissed, her hands crawling up his chest, to rest on his neck, her fingers touching the back of his head; his hair, as he crushed her to him, his lips pressing hers firmly. She felt good in his arms and for a minute Steiner _did_ contemplate getting her a place here in New York. It had been awhile since he had a mistress. She would be nice to have in town when business brought him here. He could take her to shows and expensive restaurants. And Steiner could picture her unpretentious glee every time he stopped by and brought her something pretty …

But then he felt something on his neck, a prick of something sharp, and he pushed her away. Suddenly, Steiner felt woozy.

Cinnamon stood, stepped back, pushed the needle with the knock-out drop back into the ring, and looked at him. "Unwell?" she asked, her tearful voice now deep, unapologetic and sultry. The woman suddenly wore the expression of a worldly female who had more than a few secrets.

He was stunned. "What have you …?" he started. Steiner tried to get up but his legs were too weak to manage his weight.

Cinnamon walked over to the desk and picked up his gun. She then calmly strolled to the side table, to the phone, and dialed nine. "Done." She said simply into the receiver and hung up.

Steiner made a lunge, "You deceitful bitch!" and briefly caught hold of Cinnamon's wrist. He was strong but weakened by the drug and she was able to fend him off by cracking his knuckles with the butt of the gun.

She watched as Steiner fell back on the bed.

He could not move, could only look at the textured ceiling above them. However, Steiner could hear her open the hotel door. Through a fog he could hear their voices.

A man asked: "Is he out?"

She replied: "Nearly."

"His men have been picked up."

"How is he?"

Steiner knew she was asking about John Simon.

"He's in surgery. We'll go there now."

That was the last thing Maxwell Steiner heard before he passed out.

* * *

 **Stay tuned for the final chapter ...**


	6. Chapter 6

**(6)**

Maxwell Steiner, along with his men, awoke on the floor in a large warehouse in Brooklyn, surrounded by crates of automatic weapons and ammunition. They were all slated to go overseas, the new property of a well-known warlord. It was illegal, which was not new to him, but this time Steiner knew nothing about this secret shipment or how it was organized without his knowledge.

The last thing he remembered when conscious was that woman – Monica – answering her hotel room door. And now, even with the memory of that lovely but treacherous blond, recall was fading and confusion dominant.

The police and FBI arrived minutes after he, Herden, and the rest of his men woke. They told him "a reliable source" tipped them off and, with evidence in abundance; arrests were made on the spot. Steiner's shouts of being framed fell on deaf ears as charge after charge was unsympathetically applied to the crime boss.

Later, while talking with his lawyer, Steiner would mention the names of Monica Selby and John Simon – and would be told they never existed. Then he told the lawyer or anyone who would listen it had to be a set-up via Lou Canyon.

"He's dead." The prosecuting attorney would tell him. "He died over a month ago …"

Maxwell Steiner would eventually be sentenced to thirty years in prison without the possibility of parole.

The Impossible Missions Force had accomplished their dangerous assignment but, under the circumstances, it left none of them particularly satisfied.

* * *

Barney sat beside Cinnamon in the waiting room. He pulled a small pack from his pocket and flashed it quickly in front of her, "Cigarette?" he asked.

"No." she replied, nervous and bit unfocused. "I quit."

His dark brows rose at this sudden development but nodded and lit one for himself.

Rollin was in surgery for nearly three hours. Dr. Greene told them the bullet broke into two pieces. A fragment was far closer to his heart than what was comfortable. The other half was lodged in a precarious area that bordered on shoulder and chest. Also, his veins were teaming with all kinds of medication, experimental and otherwise, which hindered the surgical procedure.

Finally, when Dr. Greene came out of the operating theater and pulled the mask from his face, he looked so ashen and exhausted, his scrubs sweat soaked and body limp – they feared the worst. He met Jim Phelps eyes and sighed.

Cinnamon grasped the arms of her chair tightly; choking back tears, but then took a deep breath when the doctor smiled ever so slightly.

"He'll be fine. Rollin needs lots of rest and time to heal. The sooner we get him back to Los Angeles the better. I've already called Arrowhead Permanente and they have a bed in a private room waiting for him." Dr. Greene knew as well as everyone else that the moment a mission was completed it benefitted all involved to get participants out of the city as soon as possible, no matter the circumstances.

"The plane is waiting." Phelps assured. "Is he conscious?"

"Just barely. He'll sleep all the way home."

"Can we see him?" Willy asked.

"Just one of you for now." Then he said, as Jim moved forward. "He asked to see Miss Carter."

Phelps stopped in his tracks, surprised, but Barney and Willy nodded as if they suspected he would want to see her first.

"I won't be long." Cinnamon promised and purposely did not meet Jim's eyes.

* * *

While Jim and Barney were implementing Rollin's transfer from the clinic to their private airplane, Cinnamon asked Willy to come with her on a walk. They needed to go to one of the seedier parts on New York and she did not feel comfortable going alone.

He was willing and did not ask her why. One of the nice things about Willy Armitage, when it came to his devotion to the team – and Cinnamon Carter especially – was he knew when not to be too inquisitive.

They were on 9th Street and Cinnamon, working from verbal instructions, peered down an alley. Willy watched her, curious but patient. "Jose? Joe?" she called. "Are you here?"

They could hear the clinking of a bottle, either on the pavement or against the brick wall they were standing near, and the shuffling of feet.

"A friend sent me." Cinnamon called again.

"Fine lady like you shouldn't be in this part of the city." A raspy voice called.

"That's why _I'm_ here." Willy said as the man with ragged clothing and a knit cap approached.

"Can I help you?" Joe asked.

"We would like to help _you_. Do you need work? Money?"

He looked at the handsome and clean cut couple suspiciously. "Never had need of either." He said. It then occurred to him who might have sent them. He said he would not forget him. That was yesterday … "He was hurt. Is he okay?" Joe asked.

She smiled mildly, "He's being taken care of. He will be fine." Cinnamon took a twenty dollar bill from inside of her dark glove and handed it over to him. "Joe, as a personal favor to me and _him_ – get a good meal, a haircut and take a bath. Just once – _and no liquor_." She paused, smiling gently, studying his irresolute expression. "And if you can't see yourself doing that, use this cash to help someone else. One day, when he's well and back in New York he'll look you up. Okay?"

"Sure, lady." Jose shrugged gently and took the money. "Tell him I'm glad he recovered." Then, with some humor, he added - "Now you two need to get out of here. You're bringing the neighborhood down."

* * *

 **(Continue to Chapter 7 - Too much for one chapter! THE CONCLUSION!)**


	7. Chapter 7

**(7)**

The only time she came to see him was when she was with another. In a sense, Rollin understood well enough. If Miss Carter was feeling some of the things he was then perhaps she was teetering on the edge of caution; particularly if she was unsure how to progress or was wondering if they should. But he longed to be alone with her for just a little while so they could talk. He needed to know what she was thinking.

Two weeks passed and Rollin was recuperating at home, in his L.A. apartment, and happy to do so. Even as a kid he always hated the hospital. He had been in his Uncle Nicholas hospital room when he passed and, as a child, it gave him nightmares for a week. Therefore, relaxing in his own place, with his books, music and the company of an occasional theater friend stopping in was bliss.

His friends outside of the IMF were told he took a fall and injured a shoulder. That seemed satisfactory and they merely commented on his weight loss and the dark circles developing under his eyes.

Rollin really wasn't eating well. He knew it. But he simply was not hungry. He also found himself experiencing pangs of depression … He was advised that it was natural after the ordeal he had been through.

Phelps told him once he got back into shape they'd have him do some simple missions initially, maybe overseas in France or Greece, just so he could get away and enjoy himself – "All to aid in your recuperation." He said in that jovial manner that was so common to Jim.

As he delivered the news, assuming Rollin would quite rightly be pleased that he would be back to work sometime soon, the actor noticed how well-groomed and dressed Jim was on this day.

Cinnamon, dressed in Dior and looking particularly beautiful, had also been there during Jim's visit. She told him Jim gave her a lift and they, along with Barney and his wife Phyllis, were going out to dinner that evening. She must have read something on Rollin's face because her mild smile diminished and Cinnamon suddenly seemed to realize she might have somehow hurt him.

With all the enthusiasm he could muster, Rollin forcibly placed a smile on his lips and told them he hoped they all had a great time.

* * *

A month after his return to Los Angeles, his wounds nearly forgotten, Rollin started back at his local gym, eating better and trying hard to tone-up. An assignment was just around the corner and he needed to be physically and mentally strong for it.

He was on a stationary bicycle, looking out of the large window facing the street, when he spotted Cinnamon. She was exiting a fabric shop and her arm was entwined with a handsome man's; someone Rollin had never seen before. They appeared to be talking merrily and a little too chummy, Rollin thought.

They then kissed directly on the lips just before she got into her car.

Rollin stopped what he was doing, his jaw clenched, and he could not help it. He was angry; seeing red.

* * *

"What do you want from me?" she asked, sitting calmly on the sofa in her living room, wearing an elegant flowered lounging dress and stirring a cup of tepid tea. She watched as Rollin paced in front of her.

"I don't know." He said, agitated. "I just thought we had … _something_."

"We do." She said, earnestly. "We're workmates and friends. I trust you with my life, Rollin. Isn't that enough?"

"It should be. It has been in the past … but it's not." He muttered.

He came over unannounced.

Rollin had called Barney the day before, asking him if any of them – as far as he knew – were currently on a mission. He told him Willy was in Brazil. They needed his muscle there for an operation. But, as far as he knew, himself, Jim and Cinnamon were resting. Rollin then asked Barney about the supper he and Phyllis had with Jim and Cinnamon. Barney admitted it was an odd night. Jim tried to keep conversation light and moving but Cinnamon was completely preoccupied the whole night.

"Why was she with _Jim_? Are they seeing each other? Is she seeing anyone else?" Rollin asked pointedly.

"You should probably ask her." Barney replied.

And he did. Rollin came over to her home, she let him in, and he immediately asked her if he had done something to displease her – besides getting injured on a mission.

Hesitating, Cinnamon asked him if held like a drink, indicating the bar as she poured tea. Rollin was not a man to drink tea. It was either dark coffee or alcohol if a case called for it but, as a spy, he really did not indulge much in either – which was surprising for an actor.

"I'm just seeing and feeling things now that confuse me." He admitted, ignoring her question. "Before I was shot I never really felt my mortality. All these years I danced with danger. I saw both Barney and Dan wounded but I always managed to skip by the guy with the hood and cycle."

"Until a month ago." Cinnamon added, holding her teacup.

He looked at her and nodded. "I never thought it was important to voice the things I was really feeling because I knew there would be time. Oh, I've always known our work is dangerous but … Now I realize that time truly is fleeting. I only felt this way one other time."

"When was that?" Cinnamon asked, sipping her tea.

"Last year when you were caught behind the iron curtain." He said and met her stunned eyes. Rollin paused before saying, "I really thought I had … _we_ had lost you. I was so relieved and wanted to talk with you then – but you pretty much clung to Jim the entire way back to Los Angeles." Rollin looked away from her, a bit saddened. "You do not have to answer if you don't want to but – do you and Jim have something going on?"

"No." she said very simply, "Jim's life is his work and I am an adult single woman. I date, Rollin, but I'm not exclusive with anyone right now. Jim and I went to dinner with Barney and Phyllis because it was their wedding anniversary. We were asked. Barney probably would have asked you to come along too but you were still recovering."

Rollin rounded the coffee table and sat beside Cinnamon on the sofa, "Have you ever considered getting married?" he asked, tentatively.

"I have." She admitted, very aware of how close they were to one another. Cinnamon suddenly realized Rollin had not lit up a cigarette since he came into her house. Was he being polite since she quit or was he trying to tell her something?

They were quiet and it was getting warm. Rollin leaned in ever so slightly in invitation but felt Cinnamon's hand and slender fingers were on his chest in an instant, holding him back.

"But I'm not ready." She said, "I may be someday to start a long serious relationship. But meanwhile there are oppressed countries that need our aid, crimes inside and outside of the United States which need thwarted, and so many more missions to complete." Cinnamon nearly felt a physical pain when he pulled back. Rollin would never know how difficult this was for her. "What we do is bigger than the both of us – _right now."_

She sincerely cared for him, had worked with Rollin longer than any of the other agents. He was handsome and a good man; they flirted and had a comradery that was unique and true – but his injury affected her too. She nearly lost him and, in a way, failed him. That pain was still with Cinnamon.

Besides, neither were yet willing to stop being agents and, for Cinnamon Carter, that meant not allowing herself to get in too deep. She hoped he understood.

"I better go." Rollin said and stood.

"You don't have to." Cinnamon said, gently. "Why don't you get that drink and we'll sit here and talk for a while."

"Talk?"

"I really want to, Rollin." One of her hands lifted to cover his as it dangled by his side. "I'd like to know how brave young Rollin Hand, the actor who was going to take New York and Hollywood by storm, got mixed up in this crazy business. And maybe I will tell you how a pretty but too serious law student found herself modeling then approached by the most interesting people, asking her if she would like to take an active part in serving her country ..." Cinnamon dropped her hand and chuckled gently.

Rollin looked down at Cinnamon and hesitated. He then also smiled, "Why not." They had to start somewhere. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a small scotch. Perhaps they weren't meant to be together in the here and now but – in the future? Only time would tell.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.

"No, go ahead." She almost said _'light one for me'_ but forced herself not to. Some missions, Cinnamon thought as he again sat beside her, were far more difficult than others.

They talked until dawn then went to breakfast together.

* * *

Rollin reported in for his mission a week later. This one was in Paris, France. Jim told him Cinnamon would be waiting for him when he got there.

"You don't mind, do you?" Jim asked, knowing Rollin thought he was going it alone on this mission.

"No," Rollin replied, with a hidden but sly smile. "Not at all."

* * *

 **THE END**

 **June-July 2016**

 **Happy 4rth of July to my American readers!**

 _(Sincerely hope you enjoyed this Mission: Impossible fiction and please leave a note, review or critique if you get chance. With much appreciation - Becky)_


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